evoLver – Ahimaz Rajessh


It simply takes twenty-four minutes to arrive in one piece. That is to say, it feels like it took 1440 seconds. Now consider that in nanoseconds. That’s how long the journey takes. The heart is the last body part to arrive. For a second, it beats as if it isn’t mine. Doesn’t matter. Don’t lose heart. You come to and wonder where have I come to, the I that is a gaseous cloud, the I that is a cloudburst, the I that is a lightning bolt and the I that is packets of droplets turning into a bag of skin containing bones, vital organs, et cetera. It definitely costs in memories to get lighter than light or to even get as light as light. It costs, too, in fats, fibers, hormones, et cetera. You lose facts and perspective, too. What you lose in weight and perspective you gain in speed. The first time I caught myself saying: adachee evolvers are universal lovers revolving or evolving revolvers are whatchi chi chi— or much worse. This is the third time. Clarity, where’s clarity. Lucid reality, come to—. Silence manufactures consent. The unclassified kuyiLi (kamiKaze) birds, found mostly in the Eastern Ghats, take a fraction of a nanosecond to attack the perceived intruders. The silence that manufactures consent in turn manufactures accident. I feel light—. It costs coins to stay put so it makes sense to make trips to earn those credits and coins. I blurt. I wade through the muddy stream of dust, trying hard not to cough or sneeze, for a heart, for a press datacard. I go to the front desk only to be led to the desk adjacent to it, then to the desks above it, below it and to the desks still below. The figure behind the desk is a handcuffed—! Look, who’s a falling star is a rising bird. Magnesium—. Clarity, where’s clarity. Lucid reality. If it weren’t for the magnetism of the sun and the moon, we wouldn’t have lasted a fraction of a nanosecond. Nature, particularly forests and mountains, has grown more and more resistant to the probes of our sneaky scanning satellites. Very many many many many nanoseconds ago many folks from thainadU moved to plaNet maYa or so goes a story. The move, they say, was marked by intermittent displacements over a course of 1440 seconds in the Cosmic Clock. What began with the nascent advent of Lucidity ended abruptly with it becoming perfect, so they say, although a counter-narrative has it that it never did really end. The greedy do not ever leave, and even if they do, they remote control the abuse of local natural resources from afar solely for their benefit, leaving bones and breadcrumbs for the local ‘petit bourgeois’. An unfinished story is a—. Lucidity is as well the science of an aviation technology that puts the ship inside the pilot. In other words, I take the control and the ship takes control of me. You sense that you are flying like a bird in spaces where no birds fly, feeling the expanse and the wind in your skin and bone, navigating magnetic polychromatic threads, sensing spaceways, seeking sustenance. Pragasam, the ship made of graphene, filters out the toxins in the wind and ricochets junks and whateves that come in the way. It ensures that your fragility isn’t compromised and your essential physicality is intact which renders other physical, psychological adventures feasible. This is evolution of one kind—technological, psychological and to a great extent physical. What’s this another kind of evolution that they purport. Spiritual, so they say, wherein the folks once bodied move now bodiless to plaNet maYa. They are called evoLvers, having evolved from soft-veined, hard-boned, monochrome bodies to nochrome noBodies. Nonetheless, though, nobody wonders as to why the wannabe noBodies who are right now very significant somebodies anyhow desperately want to teach the insignificant somebodies to become noBodies instead of—. An unfinished story is a whale song or what. Clarity, where’s lucid reality. The creation of a droplet is as vital and precious as the formation of a star. Look, who’s a falling star is a rising—! But this is not the desk that issues press cards, or is it? Clarity. Yes, clarity. He studies my profile for a moment, lifts his chin up meaning to make myself cozy maybe. I push the chair, sneak in, pull it back and sit. So is this—. I wish to have some clarity. Tell me you’re the customer I’m selling my designer pills of Pragasam to and that I’m quitting it all for the third time. He blinks, and for a person who is restrained, it is strange that he already seems oblivious to his restraints. I glide—. I yawn and a mini-Pragasam floats, virtually literally, in my mouth. I’m one with it, so much one with it as to be a shooting meteoroid. I glide, probe and capture. Soft tissue—. Hail the soft-veined satellites. Set the controls for—. I feel light, so light as to be able to walk upon the clouds above the Western Ghats without startling the shiny pregnant droplets with my footprints. I just want to have a good whiff of the distant petrichor. No sooner the unfiltered wind caresses my face than the pollens and spores invade my nostrils. Why did I press—. Have they been waiting for me to press the switch to pull down my titanoglass mask. Why itch and irritate this much. I blink and—! Holy crap, the kamiKaze birds have identified and marked my presence in their territory. Where have I come to … how come I’m suddenly above the Eastern Ghats instead of—! There isn’t a fraction of a nanosecond left. Clutching at the priceless randomR2R dataheart of the Eastern Ghats beneath my chest that’s clad in spider silk, agile and rapidly rising, a nanosecond short of attaining light speed, I, who freelances for the noBodies of plaNet maYa, begin to sneeze bursting into the usual incessant 1440 sneezes, associated with my weak immune system weaned off yet craving for allo-Siddha herbal dust, which will surely be curtailed this time by the kuyiLis, arriving faster than any known mechanized arrowheads or guided missiles aiming straight at MaaAI—. I blink and ,,, he flickers and fades. No, it’s not the designer drugs, nor has my body transformed itself into a tesseract with a nervous system, so this isn’t some—. This isn’t me randomly reporting from a wormhole. Just bursting into, not cloudbursting into and not lightning bolting into or thundering out into—. For a nanosecond, it seems, he behaves as though I’m nonexistent. When he blinks, it’s very likely that I, too, flicker and fade. It would emerge then that he’s fragile, and so am I, the all-powerful designer graphene, spider silk, titanium, chromium and designer whateves notwithstanding.




Ahimaz Rajessh (@ahimaaz) has been published with formercactus, Dream Pop Press, Big Echo: Critical SF, MoonPark Review, Jellyfish Review, unFold, The Cabinet of Heed, Speculative 66, Liminality, The Airgonaut, Occulum, Surreal Poetics and Jersey Devil Press besides many other zines.

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